


Why don't I begin again

by girlwithabird42



Series: Once more for the ages [24]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Family History, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 12:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19791217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwithabird42/pseuds/girlwithabird42
Summary: Cassandra Morgan's legacy, lost and found.





	Why don't I begin again

When Sam’s sure Nathan’s asleep for good, he pulls the two other journals from his backpack and wedges himself between the bed and the motel wall. He takes a deep breath and opens the first one.

His chest deflates somewhat at recognizing it. He’d hoped it was another new one, like the one filled with Avery’s exploits.

Mom’s notes are scrambled, like so much was at the end. Her ramblings about empires and kings, warlords and buried cities, make as little sense now as they did when he watched her write them down.

Sam flips back to the front, _C.M._ penciled in the corner. Mom had maybe a dozen of these, always the first things unpacked and the last packed when they moved from place to place. It would be his shitty luck he grabbed one of the duds.

The second journal is also one of mom’s last. Sam isn’t reading too closely, mostly focused on seeing mom’s handwriting again, when he comes across a splash of color that stops him short.

There, in the middle of mom’s notes on Roman treasury deposits, is Nathan’s bright red crayon streaked across the page.

God knows how Nathan got his hands on the journal, but mom snapped at him for playing with her things. Before Nathan could burst into tears, Sam dragged him outside where they threw rocks at the fence, the outburst forgotten. By dinner, mom forgot too, quizzing them on their Latin. The answer was there on the tip of Sam’s tongue, but Nathan, all of five, got there first and all of mom’s praise.

That used to be Sam.

Sam absently runs his finger over the waxy mark and doesn’t hear Nathan stir right away.

“What are you doing?” Nathan mumbles.

Sam blinks furiously, craning his neck around to face his brother. “Nothing. Go back to bed.”

God help him, Nathan buys it. Sam shoves the journals into backpack, pulling out a carton.

_Damn it. One cigarette left._

He’d sneak off to the twenty-four hour convenience store to replace it, but he can’t leave Nathan alone, at least not tonight. He will dare as far as the balcony overlooking the parking lot where he smokes the final cigarette down to a smoldering butt.

Thomas Morgan sold mom’s life’s work for a few hundred bucks to some old lady who let them sit in boxes for years. Sam’s always mad at dad, but now he’s mad at the woman too.

She could have gotten mom a real job. She could have gotten mom a lawyer to divorce dad’s ass, not that mom would have considered it. Instead she took what is rightfully his and Nathan’s and couldn’t even be bothered to feel bad about it until the end.

Sam knows he’s not supposed to think ill of the dead and crosses himself for good measure.

All Sam managed to walk away with was a reminder of what mom could have been and what she became.

_Sic parvus magna_. No greatness, just a small, unhappy life.

Nathan wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough. Still, he’d trade in all the journals for her back.

Sam flicks what remains of the butt into dark night sky, watching it arc out of sight. There’s no turning around to head back into the city; he’ll just have to accept that the rest of the journals are as lost as mom.

All he and Nathan can do is finish what they have: Avery and Drake will be their greatness.

\----------

“Wedding in September, baby in May,” mom sighs.

“We were engaged,” Cassandra mumbles, shifting Samuel’s weight.

“You should have waited. Youth today,” mom bemoans the state of the world.

There’s no point in explaining to her mother that two hundred years ago, it was very common for brides in New England to go to the altar pregnant; that total chastity before marriage is recent in the scheme of human history, all things considered. Mom never cared about those sorts of things.

“Tell your friends he came early,” Cassandra says. “I won’t say anything otherwise.”

Mom snorts, taking another glance at him but doesn’t argue further.

Cassandra sits up straighter, strong enough for the first time since labor to defend herself.

“You don’t have to stay mom,” she says coolly. “The doctor says we’re fine and Thomas is picking us up in the morning.”

No one at home thought she’d make anything of her hard-earned degree and Cassandra listened to them. Better get married and have babies, if you can, and for God’s sake, don’t be such a snob.

Cassandra still can’t quite figure why handsome Thomas Morgan from two doors down kissed her in the summer of 1969 when it felt like the world would never stop upending. Maybe that’s why, but Cassandra was charmed enough.

“Let me finish school,” she said.

“If I can wait that long,” he said.

_You’re too homely, too much of a bluestocking_ , they said. Cassandra showed them there, ring on her finger and baby in her arms. So what if the nurse said it’s a shame Samuel doesn’t look more like his father in Thomas’s hearing? Cassandra’s proud of him.

Mom leaves them and it’s quiet on the ward. Cassandra sets Samuel in the bassinet at her bedside, then reaches for her bag, slipping a white volume out.

_On the subject of the_ Gunsway _…_

\----------

There aren’t a lot of things to go through. Sam always believed in traveling light, but Nate looks at it anyway.

The clothes, even laundered, have the lingering stale scent of an ashtray. Sam held onto a denim jacket that barely fit any more; it certainly won’t fit Nate. Whatever compelled Sam to save it makes Nate set it aside. He has no use for a rosary; cheap as it is, getting rid of it probably doesn’t count as blasphemy.

He chucks almost all of it. The weight of Sam’s memory is heavy enough without his crap too.

Nate’s ready to throw out the final box, sight unseen, but something compels him to pull the lid off. His heart skips a beat.

Mom’s journal.

Sam practically committed its contents to memory so Rafe wouldn’t get his hands on it and thank God for that.

Nate picks it up with shaking hands; the spine creaks with age as he flips through it. He’s at mom’s notes on Drake when he notices what else is in the box: more journals.

“God damn it, Sam,” he mutters, an unexpected angry bile rising in his throat.

Sam kept these secret for nearly fifteen years. Not a word to Nate, he held onto just a shred more of their mom. Sam shouldn’t have kept it from him

But then Sam wasn’t supposed to die without Nate either and whose fault was that?

Nate sits there in the silent room, blood pumping in his ears so loudly it rings. He can’t bring himself to open the other journals.

Mom’s dead and Sam’s dead. There’s no use in trying to bring them back now.

Everything but the journals gets thrown into the dumpster. The journals are boxed with the jacket and the broken Saint Dismas, buried deep under Nate’s other things at Sully’s.

Nate forces himself not to think about them and one day, it isn’t even forced.

\----------

The signs are all there; Cassandra hasn’t told a soul, especially not Thomas. She does her best to push the nausea down, pulling her coat collar closer against the late winter winds.

“Come in, my dear, you must be freezing,” Evelyn ushers her inside, fresh cigarette in hand.

Cassandra is still warming up only half-listening to Evelyn.

“As a favor to you, I inquired about that collection of Francis Drake ephemera. It appears it’s changing hands again, unfortunately before I –”

“I’m pregnant,” Cassandra blurts out.

The mantel clock in Evelyn’s office is ticking impossibly loud.

“Oh. Congratulations,” Evelyn says more out of obligation than sincerity. “Your husband must be pleased.”

It’s a minor miracle after five years of marriage this is only the second time Cassandra’s been pregnant. Thomas hates feeding three mouths with his spotty paychecks; he hates Cassandra’s supplementary income more. God only knows what another baby means.

“He is,” Cassandra lies. “And I intend to keep working through this, so you don’t have to worry about any of your projects stalling.”

Evelyn frowns, dragging on her cigarette with no answer. Cassandra tries to busy herself with work, but there’s an uneasy pall on the room.

“It’s such a shame for your career,” Evelyn murmurs, as if Cassandra wasn’t supposed to hear.

Her blood runs icy, “Excuse me?”

Evelyn meets her glare. “I’ll keep you on as long as I can, but you must know you’ll have to leave for your children eventually. I’m sure that’s what your husband would want.”

Ice burns away, anger flaring up in Cassandra’s chest. How dare Evelyn presume anything about her life, this old woman locked away alone.

“I have no intention of leaving,” Cassandra says hotly.

“And I don’t want to lose you and your invaluable work,” Evelyn says plainly.

They say no more on the subject. When she leaves for the day, Cassandra sits in the car, sobbing out her deep well of sorrows. For the baby, for herself, for what could have been.

The babysitter doesn’t say anything about Cassandra’s puffy eyes.

“Was he any trouble?”

“He settled down once I put on the TV,” the babysitter says diplomatically.

Cassandra finds Samuel still firmly planted in front of WGBH. She sits next to him on the couch, only briefly catching his attention when she gives his shoulder a small squeeze.

This baby and Samuel will be there for each other when she can’t.

She smiles to herself. Thank God for this baby.

\----------

Sam isn’t sure how he got roped into helping Nathan and Elena pack for the move. Just his dumb luck, he supposes.

So here he is, in the middle of their office, surrounded by boxes, sweating his ass off, and chewing a wad of Nicorette large enough to give a cow’s jaw a workout. The things you do for family.

“I’m going to choke on this and die and it’ll be on your conscious,” Sam wags a finger at Nathan when his brother returns for more boxes.

“I’m sleeping easier knowing you aren’t completely wrecking your lungs or screwing up Cassie’s. Choking’s all on you,” Nathan says as he hoists two boxes up.

Sam shrugs and goes back to haphazardly shoving files into boxes. He unsuccessfully tries picking up a couple boxes as easily as Nathan. He’s grateful there are no witnesses when he knocks the top straight off one of Elena’s neatly stacked boxes.

“You think you’d be in better shape with all the running and jumping,” Sam grouses to himself when he sees what’s in the open box, turning the sweat running down his back ice cold.

He assumed, rather foolishly maybe, that Nathan threw mom’s journals out with all his other things after Panama. The one chronicling Avery never came up five years ago, they simply talked about the centuries-dead pirate as if he was a personal acquaintance.

Why Nathan never mentioned this to Sam stings. Sure, Sam’s fucked up, but that doesn’t mean Nathan gets to be Cassandra Morgan’s sole proprietor.

_He forgot, that’s all_ , Sam tells himself, shoving the lid back on before Nathan comes back. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Sam makes a point of busying himself.

Lifting up more boxes, “Elena and I really appreciate this, Sam. Seriously. Moving with a toddler a headache. Moving with a toddler to Hawaii is just plain stupidity.”

Sam waves him off. “Don’t mention it. I owe you more than one anyway.”

Nathan’s almost out of the room when Sam spots something fluttering to the ground behind him.

“Hey, wait! You dropped this,” Sam picks it up off the floor.

It’s a photo of Nathan, Elena, and Victor on their El Dorado haul. A few years ago, Sam would have been jealous, but considering his last find wasn’t too shabby, the twinge isn’t there.

“Thanks,” Nathan takes the photo off his hands. “It would have been a real shame to lose this, it’s the only shot we have from that trip.”

Sam watches Nathan slip the photo in with the still-secret journals. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt. Jesus, he misses how cigarettes were an occupation for his hands.

“How are you going to explain all of this?” Sam blurts out. “To Cassie, I mean.”

“She’s two, Sam,” Nathan chuckles.

“She’s a smart kid. You’re gonna have to come up with something for what Sully and I do and that’ll get into what you –”

“We’ll cross that bridge when she gets to it. You know, when she’s four,” Nathan says in mock seriousness.

Sam manages a weak chuckle; Nathan walks out with his load. Sam returns to filing contracts that make his eyes glaze over.

No one says anything about the journals, but Sam tucks them away in the back of his mind.

\----------

Samuel sulked when Cassandra told him to pack his room. She’s torn between wanting him to take as long as possible and buy her a little time or guarantee it’s one less room for her to pack. Thankfully Nathan went down easily for his nap.

She’s almost done with the living room, save a shelf on the bookcase. She can’t bear to look at the journals. When the garbage is collected tomorrow, she’ll get rid of them and that’ll be the end of it. No more notions of being an historian.

“Stop pouting. I’m making more now,” Thomas said after Cassandra left Evelyn’s employ. “Lord knows you could be spending more time with the boys.”

“So could you,” she retorted.

“You’re their _mother_.”

Cassandra somehow held it together, despite the guilt pooling in her stomach.

Scrubbing the oven, Cassandra doesn’t immediately hear Samuel wander into the kitchen.

“Did you finish packing?”

“Uh huh.”

“Samuel…”

“I swear!”

Cassandra looks up to see her son reading one of her journals.

“Put it back, it’s not yours,” she says too tersely, wincing at her tone.

Samuel is reluctant, looking back at the page. “Macedonia, that’s where Alexander the Great was from, right?”

Cassandra is stunned. She blinks. “Yes, but where’d you learn that?”

“I heard you talking to someone on the phone.”

Cassandra should tell him off for eavesdropping, but can’t bring herself to. Samuel’s bright, he wants to learn; she’s not sure how she missed it.

“Let me clean up, then we can look at this together. But please ask first.”

“Okay.”

No longer covered in old cooking grease, Cassandra takes the journal from Samuel and they talk about ancient cities and buried treasure. He has a child’s understanding, but Cassandra can’t say she doesn’t understand his enthusiasm.

“We can tell Nathan all about this too!”

“When he’s old enough,” Cassandra allows.

Late that night, she packs the journals up, dropping a Mary icon in with them.

Forget Evelyn. She can do this on her own.

\----------

They finish the day’s shoot early and the hotel babysitter has Cassie for another hour which only means one thing: sex.

“We should do this more often,” Elena laughs breathily. “You _could_ go a little faster though.”

“Nah.”

“Asshole,” she gasps, arching into him. He dips down to kiss her collarbone.

Nate’s bravado isn’t misplaced. He’s happy to take his time and he can get a lot done in an hour. Things are starting to build enough that he doesn’t hear Elena’s phone buzz on the bedside table.

“Wait, Nate. Wait,” Elena pushes him off.

Nate rolls to the side of the bed. Irritation creeps into his horniness, “Really? Checking your messages?”

“It could be about Cassie – oh.”

“See? Not important,” he pulls himself back to her.

Elena frowns at her phone. “Someone deactivated the house alarm. You should have the notification too.”

Nate’s trying to muster caring when Elena’s phone goes off in her hand. She answers, and while Nate would marvel at how level she’s managing to sound, he heads to the bathroom instead.

“Hi, Chelsea. You just saw someone go into the house? Well are you sure?”

It hits Nate what’s going on. Stepping back into the room, he mouths ‘Sam’ at Elena, who catches his drift.

It takes Nate another moment to collect himself enough to actually call his brother and ask why the hell he needs to break into their house when they’re halfway across the globe.

“Yeah, there’s no need to call the cops.” Nate can’t help but roll his eyes at Elena begging off their neighbor as he dials.

Sam picks up on the second ring. “Nathan.”

“Care to explain why you’re giving our busybody neighbor a heart attack?”

“I need to borrow mom’s journals.”

That’s not even close to what Nate expected. “How did –”

“Let’s just say I did some snooping and call it a day. And I should have guessed people in Hawaii are nosier than New Orleans. That whole laid-back thing is a scam.”

Nate chuckles, “The home security app tipped us off anyway. Wait a second, I haven’t given you a key to the new place, how did you know the code?”

“You told me it was Cassie’s birthday. I have a mind like a steel trap.”

“When you want to.”

A pause. “I’ll take care of them.”

“I know you will.”

“Get back to whatever I interrupted.”

Nate clears his throat, “No, we finished for the day.”

“Uh huh,” Sam says too knowingly. “Goodbye, Nathan.” The line clicks off.

“What was that about?” Elena rubs Nate’s back.

“I genuinely have no idea.”

The day has been long and neither has the energy to resume where they left off, unsatisfied as they both are. They pick up Cassie at little early and head to the hotel restaurant for a dinner of burgers and weak beer.

“I never even looked at the other two,” Nate says when catching Elena up. “I didn’t see the point.”

“Maybe you thought Sam had a reason for not telling you about them,” Elena thinks out loud, fighting Cassie, who pulls hard at her collar.

Nate takes a swig of beer.

Sam rarely, if ever, brought up mom, but then Nate talked about her less. It’s hard to really miss her when his memories are faint, at best. He wonders how much Cassie will remember of her life now when she’s his age. He hopes Sam finds whatever he’s looking for.

Nate’s drawn back to the present with Elena and Cassie’s struggle.

“Hon, you’re stretching out my shirt and gonna get me charged with indecent exposure,” Elena pleads.

“Come here, Cassie,” Nate reaches out. “I can take the exposure.”

Elena snorts, but is clearly ready for the relief. Cassie continues her little game with Nate’s shirt which he ignores until there’s a sharp tug of chest hair by toddler fist.

“Ouch! Now you’ve just made it weird.”

Cassie giggles as Elena throws her head back in laughter.

\----------

Despite years of evidence to the contrary, Cassandra sits up in bed waiting for Thomas to come home. He said no later than ten. The clock clicks over to 11:43.

She sketches a cathedral on a blank page, one she’ll only ever see in a book. Pencil isn’t as easy to manipulate as charcoal, but more forgiving than ink. It’s all she has and she’ll make do.

The bedroom door cracks open, Nathan’s wide eyes peeking in.

Cassandra closes the journal and puts it on the nightstand. “What are you doing up?”

He opens the door more. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Cassandra gives in, patting the bed. Nathan runs and launches himself onto the mattress with more energy than a sleepy toddler should have.

“You’re lucky you didn’t split your lip.”

Nathan only grins in response before burying his face in a pillow.

“You can stay until you fall asleep or dad comes home, do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

Cassandra knows exactly which one it will be.

She doesn’t pick up her sketching again, idly running her hand through her son’s hair. Two hit Nathan like a lightning bolt and Cassandra’s afraid she can’t keep up. He was a sweet-tempered baby, not prone to fussiness and strangers would comment on his fine looks. She’s immensely proud of him, but can’t voice such sinful thoughts out loud.

And even with the five year distance, Nathan is rapidly catching up with his brother. It will only be a matter of time before Samuel is chasing after him. Cassandra prays when the time comes, it will not hurt too much.

Nathan’s breathing turns to breathy baby snores; Cassandra scoops him up. Samuel’s dead asleep in their room, sprawled out and blankets kicked off. Cassandra tucks them both back in and returns to her bed.

The drawing of the cathedral looks more and more like the photo. When Cassandra looks up, dawn pours through the window.

She shouldn’t have stayed up all night; that was a mistake. She should get up and start on breakfast. Instead she curls under the blanket and closes her eyes.

Tiny hands shake her awake. “Mom, I’m hungry!”

Cassandra balls her hands to fists under the cover, releasing them as she opens her eyes.

“I’m coming, Nathan, I’m coming.”

\----------

Combing through auction catalogs is tedious work. Sam discovered this hunting down the second Saint Dismas. The difference then was Rafe had access to the records of what felt like every auction house on earth at his fingertips.

Now Sam is reduced to unproductive internet searches and asking around on Victor’s shady forums about an estate sale that may or may not have even happened over thirty years ago.

Sam’s housesitting for Victor while he’s away in Timbuktu – literally. The beer bottles, coffee mugs, and Chinese takeout cartons are piling up around the computer.

He’s so caught up in the blue glow, he doesn’t notice the sun’s gone down until someone comes in and turns on the lights. Sam’s pretty sure he’s permanently blind.

“I’ve seen pigs living in less shit,” Victor says.

Sam rigorously rubs his eyes. “A little warning would be appreciated next time.”

Victor harrumphs by way of saying ‘fine’, crossing the room to see what he’s up to. He picks up one of the journals, set apart from Sam’s mess but doesn’t open it.

“Pirates again?”

“No, just the journals themselves. I’m having a devil of a time tracking them down.”

“Where’d you find the other two?”

“Same place Nathan and I got the first.”

“Ah.” Victor has that look like another piece of his mild disapproval has clicked into place. It doesn’t bother Sam. He’s not Nathan and frankly, it’s embarrassing begging for approval at his age.

“You’d think some old coot of a shut-in’s king’s plunder would have made a big impression on our type.”

Victor sits on the couch, lighting a cigar. After a puff, “Hate to break it to you, boyo, but you might be asking the wrong people. You probably have to ask around Boston auction houses in person.”

Sam stands, cracking his back. “I was worried you’d say that.”

“You got any names? Maybe I can do some asking around in the meantime.”

“Evelyn Nanba was the old lady we lifted these from,” Sam waves one of the journals.

“I’ll see what I can do. And Sam –” Victor stops him short leaving the room. “Nate knows about this, right? He doesn’t need any surprises while they’re over in Egypt.”

Well, Sam’s failed on that account. “Yeah, he knows.”

“Good. I can’t say I understand the urge, but if it’s what you two need –”

“Let me know what you find. Thanks, Victor.”

Whatever raucous demeanor it puts out now, Boston is still rickety old Puritan to its bones to Sam. The public library is filled with accusatory stares, probably because he’s the weird middle-aged guy hunched over the computer. The back of his neck is practically burning when his phone goes off.

He takes Victor’s call outside, free hand buried deep in his coat pocket.

“Problem was, you were looking too early,” Victor explains. “The Nanba estate bounced from auction house to auction house for a few years. Apparently it was a legal nightmare.”

“Yeah and?”

“Sotheby’s sold it at considerable loss in 1992.”

“Thank you.” He hangs up.

If the stares in the library were bad, they have nothing on the death glares in Beacon Hill. Sam can ignore them if he walks fast enough. At the steps of the Sotheby’s office he brushes off his pants and straightens his back.

There’s a woman at the front desk, probably about his age, and despite still looking totally out of place, Sam breathes a little easier. Charm he can manage.

The woman raises a critical eyebrow. Sam smiles. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

“I doubt it.”

Undeterred, Sam leans against the counter, “I’d like a look at a catalog from 1992.”

“What auction?”

“The Evelyn Nanba estate.”

Suspicion is replaced with a flash of worry on her face. “If you’re seeking legal restitution with that, you’ll have to speak to a lawyer.”

“Relax, relax. I just want to confirm a few low-cost items were sold.”

The woman doesn’t ease up, but she does stand. “Take a seat; I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Sam sits, spinning the pack of nicotine gum in his palm. Too restless, he gets up and leans over the counter, scanning the woman’s email for her name. She’s back before he sits again, but at least she doesn’t catch him snooping.

“This way please, Mr. –?”

“Drake. Thanks, Rebecca.”

If there’s any connection made, she doesn’t comment. Nor does she ask how he knows her name.

For a place that handles some of the rarest and most valuable things, they sure are a lot of boring offices. Rebecca leads him to a room lined with packed bookshelves and a single volume on the table.

“Appreciate it.” Sam sits, Rebecca doesn’t move. “You gonna hover like that?”

“You’re not really allowed back here to begin with; consider this the price of doing business.”

“Fair enough.”

Sam skims through the volumes fast for both their sakes. There are a few lots that catch his eye, relics he’d love to be able to claim he found, but of course someone else already has.

Rebecca’s bouncing her heel hard against the carpeted floor; Sam gets her point.

“Whatever you’re looking for Mr. Drake –” she huffs when Sam sees it.

_Lot 239. Series of nine journals, unattributed authorship. Circa 1970s, a variety of research notes on historical figures and events, most unsubstantiated. Original artwork of interest. $200._

“Got it. I’ll need the buyer information.”

“Sir, that’s confidential.”

“Well then what use is holding onto this information if –”

The door opens and an older man appears, a real Jeeves type. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m sorry Stephen, he had a question about the Evelyn Nanba sale.”

“Good lord.”

“Listen, I’m not suing or anything, I just need to know who bought Lot 239,” Sam presses.

“We don’t release buyer information to _anyone_.” Stephen the butler says ‘to anyone’ with the distinct impression of saying ‘to you.’

Sam stands and leans in, “I didn’t want to bring it up, but my brother? Nathan Drake –”

Stephen snorts in disbelief. “I’m sure he is, ‘historian’ for the masses that –”

Undeterred, “And if you help me out, I could get him to float some finds your way.”

Stephen considers it. “One moment please.”

Sam walks out of the office with an address and dare he say it, a little pep in his step.

\----------

The edifice stops Cassandra short in her tracks. It’s been there before, why it should have caught her attention today –

The library’s an ugly thing; a testament to Brutalist architecture, lacking in the beauty and grace Cassandra so loves in old buildings. And yet –

Contained in that slab of concrete is all the knowledge she has denied herself for years. Cassandra’s feet remain leaden until childish squabbles draw her attention elsewhere.

“Sam, stooop,” Nathan whines.

“Samuel, don’t bother your brother or you’ll really have something to be sorry for at Mass,” Cassandra warns him.

“I wasn’t doing anything mom,” Samuel protests with a small flash of a grin. That will get him in real trouble one day Cassandra predicts.

The boys have broken the spell, no more romanticizing an institutional building.

“Get moving or we’ll be late.”

Samuel and Nathan fall in line, trailing in her wake to church. Cassandra forcibly puts herself between the two of them, lest either of them provoke each other further. Once settled, she lets herself be carried away on a wave of incense.

She misses the Latin from her childhood. There was a comfort when the world was more mysterious and held so much more possibility. Everything weighs heavy like a stone. So transported, she doesn’t notice a hand tugging at her sleeve.

“Mom?” Nathan whispers.

“Don’t talk in church.”

“You’re crying,” Samuel hisses on her left.

Cassandra hasty wipes the tears away and looks to the Madonna in front of her.

_Hail, Mary, full of grace –_

\----------

Intently focused on the back of Cassie’s head, Nate’s zoned out from the rest of the world. She stacks her brightly colored bricks into elaborate structures but has far more fun knocking them down.

Her hair’s getting shaggy. Elena should give it a trim soon.

“Earth to Nate,” Elena says from somewhere behind.

“Hmm?” Nate blinks himself to the present.

Elena’s disembodied arm appears beside his head. “It’s for you,” she passes her phone over.

“Hello?”

“Would it really kill you to pick up?” Sam asks on the other end. “I feel untoward calling your wife.”

Nate snorts, craning his neck around. “Hey Elena, Sam thinks he’s _Indecent Proposal_ -ing you. Gonna leave me for him?”

Elena fakes deep thought. “Well, he _does_ call,” she ponders before she and Nate dissolve into laughter.

“You’re a real dickhead, you know that, Nathan?” Sam grouses.

“I’ve been told,” Nate says, glancing at his phone finally, blinking with multiple texts and missed calls from Sam. “So what’s this really about?”

“I’ve got ‘em. Mom’s journals.”

Nate sits up a little straighter, “All of them?”

There’s a clatter of wood blocks to the floor; Cassie’s destroyed another tower.

“Yeah, as far as I can remember. I tracked them down to some conspiracy theorist in Utah. He didn’t really want to part with them, but I talked him into it.”

“You threw my name around, didn’t you?”

“Now that’s hurtful, why would you go straight to that?” A pause. “No, not _this_ time.”

Nate chuckles, “It’s okay if you did.”

“It’s kind of a miracle I managed to fit them all in a carry-on. Can you imagine me checking a bag?”

“Elena and I should let you travel with Cassie sometime. You’ll check at least three.”

At the mention of her name, Cassie climbs into Nate’s lap.

“Hold on a sec hon, I’m on the phone with Uncle Sam.”

“Hi, Uncle Sam!” Cassie yells in the direction of the mouthpiece. Nate winces.

“Hello, Cassie,” Sam replies at a mercifully normal volume. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Wait, you’re on your way here?”

“Did I not make that clear?”

“Sam, you know you didn’t.”

“My mistake. Well, I’ll see _you_ in a few hours too.”

They hang up; Cassie climbs back down to the floor to resume her demolition derby. Elena stands in the kitchen, waiting. Nate stands up to join her.

“At least he called ahead this time,” she sighs. Nate slips her phone into her back pocket, leaving his arms wrapped around her waist. Pressing into her, he kisses her deeply enough she backs into the counter.

When they finally break apart, Elena licks her lips. “You’ve made your case, Mr. Drake, I’m definitely staying with you.”

“Just checking,” Nate grins.

True to his word, Sam shows up several hours later, rolling a suitcase behind him.

“These things are so expensive, it’s kind of a rip-off,” Sam complains.

“But way better on your back,” Nate points out.

Sam nods in agreement, wasting no time launching into it. “They’re incredible, Nathan. She had maps of secret Chinese trade routes and notes on Portuguese explorers from the fifteenth century well before anyone else was doing anything.”

Nate’s only half listening, but buzzing with the same excitement as Sam as he unzips the suitcase. There they all are, carefully packed. Mom’s life’s work, just like he remembered them as a kid. He picks one off the top, but doesn’t open it.

“Just wait until you read them. I haven’t gotten through all of them, but we’ll crack a few theories at least.”

Nate glances at Cassie napping contentedly on the couch and something washes over him, calm and at peace again.

“You keep them, Sam.”

“Excuse me, what?”

Nate can’t quite meet his eye. “You need them more than I do. It’s not that I don’t miss her, but it’s different for me. You’re always going to miss her more. Besides, you’re the one who put the work into finding them, they’re yours.”

He finally looks up; Sam’s staring. Nate shifts uncomfortably.

“If you’re sure, baby brother.”

Nate exhales, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Sam zips the suitcase back up.

He stays a few days, then flies home. When Nate tucks Cassie into bed that night, he gives her extra kisses to her brow. With Elena’s back curled against his chest, he sleeps easy.

A package shows up on the porch from Sam: the Avery journal. Nate notices the photo of Elena, Sully, and himself sticking out between the pages. He’d been wondering where that went.

Sam’s attached note is brief.

_You should at least have the one we finished. For all your other treasure._

Nate puts it away for the time being, to be shared when Cassie’s ready.

\----------

“They told us about Paul Revere. He’s not old compared to Egyptians,” Nathan protests.

“Teachers don’t know a damned thing,” Samuel agrees.

“Well, that’s about as old as anything gets around here. And don’t swear, Samuel,” Cassandra says, not tearing her eyes away from the timer.

“Sorry, mom. Although Pilgrims are older,” Samuel points out.

The boys continue on about Nathan’s field trip; Cassandra can’t join in for the headache pounding against her skull. It’s been there for days and no amount of Tylenol relieves it.

The roast beef’s taking too long.

The timer dings and Cassandra serves up dinner.

She hasn’t even sat down when Nathan says, “This is cold.”

Cassandra’s vision goes black. “What do you want from me?! I can’t do anything right! Not with you, not with Thomas, not with anyone! Christ, not even the fucking roast beef!”

A veil draws back, but the world is muted. Nathan is slack-jawed, Samuel’s face is ghostly. Cassandra drops her plate to the floor. Running out of the room, she hears Samuel say, “I’ll microwave it.”

Locked away in the bedroom, Cassandra screams herself hoarse into a pillow. She yells and cries until there’s simply nothing left in her. Even the headache is gone.

She tried, but God, it isn’t enough.

It’s dark when she finally emerges. The boys’ room is closed, only a faint light escaping under the crack. The living room light is on too, Nathan drawing on the floor. Cassandra doesn’t have the energy to yell at him for getting into her journals again.

He looks up when she enters. “I’m really sorry, mom.”

Cassandra doesn’t say anything, simply drops herself on the couch behind him. It’s not the journals he’s made his canvas, but an old grocery bag. She wonders where he got it. Maybe Samuel gave it to him.

There they remain in silence.

\----------

“These don’t leave the house, kid.”

“You’d think I’ve never done something like this before.”

“Not with the family heirlooms.”

“Okay. I _promise_ I’m not taking these any further than the porch.”

“Cassie, what did I _just_ say?”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Geez, you’re getting awfully skittish in your old age.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Cassie takes the first three journals and carefully lays them out on the table. Sam at least doesn’t hover.

These were written by someone who was her grandmother. Is? Everyone needs two grandmothers to exist but Cassie’s only ever known one.

Dad let slip that Sam had the rest of their mom’s journals, so here Cassie is. She’s already read the one dad has, but she still has little sense of the woman whose name she shares.

Cassie takes a deep breath and opens the first volume. She’s struck by how similar the notes are to her own for any of her history classes. They’re practically identical to dad’s research notebooks for the show.

An invisible hand seems to squeeze at her heart. _What else does dad share with his mom that’s simply lost to time?_

While she does look at the drawings carefully, Cassie finds herself enthralled by the handwriting. Cassandra Morgan had so much to say.

Cassie’s near the end of the fourth volume when something about Cossack jewels catches her eye.

_For a treasure so well-documented for its time, records stop abruptly. S posited the owners all murdered each other. When asked, N nodded in agreement._

Dad. Uncle Sam.

Cassie quickly wipes up the tears threatening to fall. She can’t have them running the ink.

“You know, I was able to follow a few of her other leads all the way through,” Sam says, reentering the room. “It makes you wonder what else she was onto.”

“Mmhm,” Cassie nods, trying to collect herself, but not fast enough to escape Sam’s notice.

“Jesus, you’re not already at the last ones are you? I should have warned you they get rough. You know she wasn’t a well lady.”

Cassie shakes her head, pointing to the line, “I found you guys.”

Sam hunches a little. “Oh yeah. We’re in there a couple times.”

“She valued your opinions.”

Sam chuckles, “As much as you can from a seven and two year-old.”

“She cared.”

“Maybe too much.”

Cassie has no response.

Sam clears his throat. “Sorry, I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything.”

Alone again, Cassie takes a picture of the passage and every further reference she finds. There aren’t many, but Cassie feels closer to this woman every time she comes across one. Maybe dad’s avoided looking for this very reason, just as Sam needed to seek them out. Cassie doesn’t know for sure.

She considers emailing dad the photos, but decides against it. Better in person.

Cassie sits next to dad on the couch when she passes him her phone, her knees up to her chin; his arm slung on the cushions behind her shoulders. He doesn’t say anything as he looks through them.

After the final picture, he kisses Cassie on the brow. “Thank you.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

\----------

The air is crisp; everything a New England fall day should be. The summer was really something, but Cassandra bursts with anticipation for her final year of college.

Her advisor told her to start compiling her thesis research and Cassandra doesn’t quite have the tools for it yet.

The journals at the shop are pristine. If Cassandra’s honest, they’re too pricey for her, but she assures herself they’ll be worth it.

Every page is a possibility, as if the world is hers for the taking.

**Author's Note:**

> I love that Cassandra is _the_ underlying current of 4, but no more dead moms in media please. Also auction catalogs really are the most frustrating object research resources.


End file.
